I know, I’m not 40-something anymore, but this event happened before my 50th birthday. I would have written this sooner, but I had to wait until I stopped crying – I had to wait until I was older and wiser. Besides, I have a fondness for the 40-something Breck Girl and I don’t want to lose her.
I cut my hair last summer.
No, I FUCKING CUT MY HAIR! You’d have to be unnaturally attached to your hair like I am to understand the full magnitude of this event. First of all, I call myself a Breck Girl – what does that tell you? If I owned a motorcycle helmet I could be one of those sexy girls who pulls off the helmet and whips her hair over her head! I COULD BE ONE OF CHARLIE’S ANGELS!!
All because I was bored – and I don’t bore easily. We were on vacation in a beach cottage in Maine for one week only, and it was day four of cold rain. We couldn’t even enjoy sitting out on the porch without heavy clothing and blankets. My best friend looked at me and mentioned something about cutting the bad ends off of my hair and it went from there. I should have turned around the minute I stepped into the salon that looked like it was opened in the ‘70s and ran the same way (by the same stylist) since – but I was bored and we walked all the way to the salon in the cold rain.
I’m not Samson; my hair is not my strength, but it is my most magnificent decoration; better than any jewelry. When your hair looks good you don’t need makeup. My hair was also something I was always able to hide behind. Tired eyes? Big ‘ol zit? Frown? Insecurity? You could never see them. My hair was my crown and my shield.
I enjoyed my hair, too. The best part about driving around in my convertible was the wind whipping through my hair (I never wore a hat or ponytail – and it was totally worth brushing the knots out for 30 minutes afterwards). After I washed my hair it was therapeutic to dry it and I loved how it felt on my back, warm from the hair dryer. My hair reflected my moods; I could fix it seriously, playfully, glamorously, and I-don’t-give-a-fuck-ly. I’m a fidgeter, too; I play with my hair constantly. And I appreciated it, and the fact that it forgave me for what I did to it during the ‘80’s.
My hair allowed me to feel in charge. If I was going through a really bad time, you could tell by my hair. One year for Halloween I dyed my hair black with permanent dye. I hated it (it was good for Halloween) and every time I looked in the mirror I would scare myself, and I had a few bad days where I may or may not have taken scissors to my hair in frustration – but it was good because of what it represented to me (even if my hairstylist would hit me with a brush when I went in for emergency repairs): control. Whenever I felt like I had no control over circumstances around me, I could control my hair. If it looked bad, I knew I was responsible and no one else. It was change that I was in charge of. And it was ‘safe’. I knew I wasn’t doing anything permanent. That may be small to you, but it was a big deal to me and it helped out a lot.
My hair was a part of my identity; the good, the bad, and the ‘80s.
And it’s been gone. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the cut was terrible and I had to trim it every time I washed it. I could have gone to a salon to fix it, but they would have had to cut it shorter and I was traumatized enough. I did not have even one day where I could say, “Well, at least my hair looks good.” There’s enough talk of bad hair days for you to understand how I felt – and this was every single day.
This past year I’ve felt more exposed than if I were naked – that in itself was a hard enough thing to realize, because while I did know I hid behind it I did not realize how much I hid. I would look in the mirror and not even feel I knew who I was.
Just when I was beginning to think I had things at least a little under control …
But Facebook showed me a picture of my ‘memories from one year ago’ and I was able to see how much my hair has grown. Two weeks ago I actually had to pull it out from under the collar of my shirt. I can feel it touching my shoulders again. I can even put it up in a real ponytail – it’s short, yes, but it’s not a stub. My world is beginning to right itself.
I’m still a Breck Girl, as I still was this past year even if I didn’t feel it. I survived. I got a new job that puts me in contact with new people every day, and I didn’t scare anyone off (at least, not because of my hair). I had good days, too. I enjoyed my summer vacation (although, I did return to the scene of the crime to lay a ponytail on the sidewalk in front of the salon as a memorial – and found out the salon is gone). I learned a lot about silly attachments and a little more about what I really need, and what doesn’t matter as much.
I learned a bad haircut isn’t necessarily a bad thing, even for a Breck Girl.
(But I’m glad it’s growing back.)
